To Rise Again
by GallonsoftheStuff
Summary: Riley Sigyn Jameson always thought her middle name was just the epitome of her mother's hopeless devotion to her drunken husband, until the day she meets fugitive Loki, awakening memories of a life she never knew she had. A life of love, family, and unspeakable tragedy. Will she be able to stop history from repeating itself, or will she be forced to endure the agony all over again?
1. A Most Unfortunate Night

**1/20/15 A/N: This chapter has been edited from it's original post, because my unofficial beta finally got back to me and pointed out some major things that I agreed needed fixing. Events haven't changed, but Riley's perspective on the situation has. This also means that, while the second chapter is totally written, it needs to be edited as well. Another day or two before it gets posted.**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter One: A Most Unfortunate Night<span>**

Mutter, mutter. Gripe, gripe. Every word, grumbled under my breath, was an exhausted complaint as I finally, fingers already numb with cold – seriously, how much of a bitch did Mother Nature have to be, having it go from a decent sixty degrees outside when I went to work at three in the afternoon, only to be (and I checked the thermometer nailed below our house numbers to be sure) twenty-one degrees when I get to _walk_ home, twelve hours later (four hours longer than I was supposed to work, because _somebody_ overslept and was three hours late), with only a light jacket on – unlocked the door to the house I shared with four other broke college students of varying majors and tried to go inside.

Only to have the door stick partway, because _apparently_ my over-paranoid roommate, Susan, had, once again, locked the _extra_ locks on our door. The kind you have to be _inside_ to unlock. You know, the sliding chains, the flip bolts – the whole shebang that she had installed when she moved in with us at the beginning of the year?

Never mind that we live in the safest neighborhood within walking distance of the university. Never mind that, up to that point, the four of us had barely even remembered to _lock_ the door, whether we were home or not. And never mind the fact that we live with two German Shepherds, one Irish wolfhound, and a Pit Bull (who is sweet as pie and wouldn't hurt a fly, but assholes wishing us ill don't know that…).

Why the hell did she lock all the extras! I called and told them I was going to be… well, no… dammit, so this one was on me. I'd called to say I had to work a double – how I was supposed to know that Katherine (because I was too pissed to call her Katie like I usually did… When I wasn't angry with her for being three hours late) would actually show up and I wouldn't be stuck working until seven in the morning because the nursing home I worked at was short staffed and no one else would stay or come in?

So I couldn't really blame Susan for locking all the locks – she probably expected the dogs to wake her up before I could get home in the morning – but that didn't stop me from cussing under my breath about paranoid roomies while I stepped back and searched the windows to see if there was a light still on, a sign that one of my housemates was still awake and could let me in.

Finally! Some luck (or more luck, considering Katherine had only overslept and not decided she was taking the night off without telling anyone) was with me – Johanna's bedroom window was faintly lit. She probably was having trouble sleeping again and was reading to try to calm her mind down. If she had been a little smarter about her insomnia, she would have had one of my medical texts open, because the dry language and dull (in her opinion) subject matter never failed to put her to sleep. But obviously, she wasn't being smart tonight (or that light would have already been off and I'd have been S.O.L.) and was probably reading one of her crazy action-adventure-romance novels (which only kept her awake longer).

Grinning, I pulled out my phone and texted her:

**Got off early. Let me in. Cold!**

…while thanking my lucky stars that she was up, that my fingers weren't so cold that I couldn't text, and Auto-correct was being merciful. It only took about thirty seconds for her to push her blinds aside and glance down to see my shivering butt (seriously, scrubs are not cold-climate clothing) and then another twenty-five to throw on a robe and come downstairs to let me in.

And yet, in those twenty-five seconds, it only took about three for me to go from impatiently waiting but happy that I'd soon be snoozing in a warm cozy bed to terrified half out of my mind. Three seconds for the man to come up behind me, wrap his arm around me, press a knife to my throat, and say in the coldest voice I had ever heard, "Do exactly as I say and I _might_ not kill you."

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><p>Okay, so two of those seconds were just me trying to process what the hell was going on – because really, who is at their best at three in the morning when freezing cold and having been up since 6:30 AM the previous day? But I definitely got it when the man – judging by the shape and size, the voice – not-so-gently shook me, the knife (sharp, colder than the air against my throat, educated-guess says <em>it's a fucking knife<em>) pressing harder against my skin, and said, "Do you understand?"

Me, having suddenly found myself without a voice, and yet unable to nod for fear the motion would make the knife (a fucking _knife!_) cut me (if it hadn't already – I got the feeling scary-voice wasn't so concerned with whether or not he did a little damage to me in the process of scaring me half to death), of course said nothing. Which only pissed the guy off, because he shook me again, harder, and if I wasn't already bleeding (kind of hard to feel when you're numb with cold, even if your blood should have been warmer), I definitely was then.

"Yes." I practically squeaked. If I hadn't been paralyzed with fear, I would have been mortified. I had never made a sound like that in my life.

"Good." Even panicking, I tried to imprint the voice into my head. Smooth, cultured… British? If I lived, I would need to file a police report, and I'd need all the identifying information I could get. Quietly furious and deadly scary, though I got the impression not all of that fury was directed at me. "When the door opens, be silent. I will speak to your friend."

Just like that, my fear sky-rocketed. Oh no. I hadn't thought about Johanna, coming to let me in. I hadn't thought of much of anything at all, actually. There hadn't been time. Now my mind was going crazy. What did he want? What could I do? I had to protect Johanna, but I didn't know how!

And before I could do anything, I heard the locks being undone on the other side of the door, the slide and rattle, metal on metal. I opened my mouth – to do what, I don't know – but there was this strange… tingle, a faint shimmer, all over my body and when Johanna opened the door, her face registered merely surprised puzzlement, not the abject terror I was feeling.

She wasn't freaking out. Why wasn't she freaking out? She should be freaking out! A girl she had known for the last two and a half years was standing at their door, with a knife to her throat. Why was she _not_ freaking out?

"Hey," came a voice, a voice with a smile in it, tired and faintly aggravated but mostly relieved – _my voice_ – before Johanna could say anything. "Took ya long enough." My voice! That was my voice – as if it were coming _from me!_ It was exactly what I would have said had she opened the door and there wasn't a guy holding a knife on me. But I hadn't said anything. I was just staring at Jo with wide eyes, mouth firmly closed, heart pounding.

_What was going on?_

"Sorry, Riley," Jo murmured, smiling a little, her eyes going back and forth between me and the man _holding a knife to my throat_ behind me. Seriously! Why wasn't she freaking out? Had she gone totally _blind_? Did she not see the knife? Was she just not making the _connection_? Did she think it was some sort of _joke_?

"Oh," my voice spoke again – without me making a _sound_ – and there was that shimmer again, tingling over my skin with a green tint. What _was_ that? Was my brain conjuring hallucinations to go with the maddening fear (which could itself be causing hallucinations, if I could think about that)? Or was it something to do with the fact that Johanna was looking at us with simple bemusement, instead of fear?

She could _not_ being seeing what was actually happening. Did this guy know some sort of instant-hypnosis technique? No, I was pretty sure there was no such thing, and besides, that didn't explain the shimmer I saw or the fact that I could hear my voice talking. Did he have some sort of technology that could trick tired college students into seeing things, hearing things? It seemed like a better explanation, but I was still freaking out.

"This is my coworker Lorcen. His car broke down, and he doesn't have another way home. _And_ he lives like a half hour drive from the home." My mind was boggled – how was this _happening_? Not only was something – the knife-wielding, scary-voiced guy with the anger issues? I should have been able to feel him talking if it was him, but I didn't; there wasn't any vibration against me like when he'd spoken before – talking in _my_ voice, but it knew where I worked? How I spoke? If that was technology, it was something way more advanced than I would have thought possible for our time – developments by Stark Industries aside. "So I told him he could crash here for the night."

Now, if Susan had answered the door, she would never have let that slide. She would have been all over me – why didn't you or he just call a cab? How dare you bring home a stranger at this time of night! Why is he getting off at the same time you are? Doesn't he have some other friend he could stay with close by?

But Johanna… not Johanna. She didn't question this at all. Because her eyes were dull with fatigue and Jo was one of those people who took practically everything at face value. If she'd thought to question the story at all, I got the feeling that whatever was talking with my voice would have come up with something good enough to fool the tired creative writing major with ease – I could have done it in a heartbeat.

"Okay," Jo said, stepping back and leaving the path open for Scary Voice to prod me inside and come with me. Mentally, I was screaming at her, begging her to see what was really happening, realize that that voice wasn't me! But she didn't – as soon as we were in the door, she shut it, locked it again, and headed for the stairs. "I'm going to bed," she said, then paused with her foot halfway to the second step, looking at us reluctantly. "Do you need me to get some blankets or anything?" Sweet Jo, too nice for her own good.

"Nah, I've got it," said my voice, still sounding like I was smiling. "You get some sleep." Jo nodded, and started to go back up the stairs again. I felt the man almost relax slightly, a tension going out of his muscles that I hadn't realized was there, only to tighten again when she stopped and glanced back at us. "Keep it down, okay? Everyone's asleep – even the dogs." She frowned to herself. "Except me of course."

I could _hear_ him grind his teeth. Oh Jo. Please, please just go upstairs. "Okay, will do," my voice said again, almost chipper but for the tiredness evident. "Good night."

"Good night." And finally she went upstairs. This time the man waited until the sound of her bedroom door closing reached us before relaxing, almost going limp, the shimmer coming again, the tingling disappearing. I realized that, whatever he'd done to fool Jo, he'd just turned it off, and I was tempted – so tempted – to scream. But as if he had read my mind, the man tightened his grip on me again and hissed in my ear, "Do not scream."

He waited, and belatedly I realized he was waiting for an answer. So I nodded, carefully, and he said, frightening voice almost cordial, with the edge of that anger (or was it desperation?) just beneath, "Good. Now show me to the kitchen." Moving carefully, I did so, mind frantically working. Escape wasn't on it though – how could it be, after that? He had something that could trick people into believing a man holding a knife to my throat was… was… a friendly coworker needing a place to crash! He had made my friend think that nothing was wrong – no, he had _shown_ her that nothing was wrong. She hadn't seen or heard anything amiss.

How was that possible? What did he have that he could make a perfectly sane – if tired – young woman see and hear something that wasn't there? While covering up what actually _was_ there! It shouldn't have been possible. From what I understood, cloaking technology was still in the testing phases, not the use-to-commit-criminal-acts-without-being-caught stage. But it was the only thing I could think of for what had just happened. And even if didn't explain everything.

Unless I had passed out at work, and all of this was actually an elaborate dream. But if it was a dream, why could I feel the knife at my throat? Why could I feel him, leather and metal, behind me, hard and unforgiving muscle wrapped around my torso? No, I didn't think this was a dream. This was real, even if the reality of it didn't make sense to me.

Reaching the kitchen, he halted us with another clench of his arm around me. "Where do you keep your medical supplies?"

The question befuddled me for a moment, wrapped up in my thoughts and fear as I was, and my response was as articulate as my squeak had been dignified. "What?"

"Your medical supplies. You are a med student. You keep things on hand for your studies, don't you?" I could hear his impatience, but there was something else too, something I hadn't been sure of before – strain. Two and two make four, and even my tired, panic-stricken mind could ask the questions and come up with reasonable answers. I'd figured out the technology thing, hadn't I?

"You're hurt?" I blurted, and it is a testimony to the type of person I am that my first thought wasn't of how I could use that to my advantage, but a kind of wordless concern for the well-being of another person. I could have kicked myself for it, because the next second I wondered how the hell he knew I was a med student, and _then_ came the thought of, if he was hurt, maybe I could hit him there and manage to get away before he did any damage to me? More damage, rather – I could finally feel the sting of a cut on my neck, though the blade was pressed to a slightly different spot now.

Maybe he heard the (stupid, terminally stupid, too-stupid-to-live stupid) concern in my voice, because he seemed to pause, as if surprised – or maybe just considering – before speaking again. "Where are your medical supplies?"

I thought about lying – he'd have to let me go in order to get them, wouldn't he? But I didn't know what he was capable of, and without knowing what he could do – what he was willing to do as well – I didn't want to take chances with my life.

I couldn't point, but the pressure of the knife had eased enough that I felt like I could speak. "The cabinet at this end, under the island." The pressure was back, and I held my breath, scared that if I so much as breathed, he would cut my throat.

"In just a moment, I will let you go." He spoke very slowly, like he was giving instructions to a child he wasn't sure would comprehend them, or a well-trained dog that he was only half-sure would understand what it was being asked to do. I was too worried about the knife to be offended. "I have been injured – I want you to get your supplies and use them to _tend_ to it." He didn't sound particularly confident that my 'tending' would help him any. "Be aware that I can kill you and every person in this house at any time." A pause to let that sink in, I think – I believed him. "I suggest you do not try anything foolish. Do you understand?"

The knife let up a bit, enough that I could speak my understanding. "Yes."

"Good." Slowly, the knife came away from my throat and his arm let go of me. He did not step back, but I was free. Sort of.

Swallowing for the first time in minutes, I took a step forward, then another, until I could kneel beside the cabinet and take out our first aid kit.

It wasn't really the 'standard' first aid kit – my aunt, who raised me and encouraged me to study medicine, was a surgeon with a private practice in South Carolina. Since I had just one year of med school left, she had started sending me 'extra' supplies – suture kits, catheters, IVs and things that I wouldn't have access to outside of a hospital. To practice with, she said, since she fully expected me to go the route of becoming a surgeon like her.

I was starting to feel paranoid. How did he know I was a med student? More, how did he know I'd be as well stocked as a hospital? Or was he just assuming? He couldn't have known. Of course not. No, he probably saw the scrubs and thought – that was it! It was the scrubs. He guessed I was a med student because of the scrubs. That was all. I was an idiot – just because he could make my roommate see and hear me and him as if everything were peachy, that didn't mean he had some psychic ability to know who and what I was. (Even I knew this was a thin explanation, but I wasn't going to go looking for a better one, not right then. I'd had too much trouble thinking beyond my fear to come up with the technology explanation.)

You'd be surprised by how much that crappy rationale reassured me. So what if he had freaky tech that I wasn't sure was even possible at the moment? At least he couldn't read my mind and wasn't stalking me.

I opened the cabinet and reached in to get things, only to realize I didn't know what I needed. What kind of injury did he have? I had no idea – I hadn't gotten as much as a glimpse of him in all this time. Moving slowly, I turned my head, not quite looking at him, in case he didn't want me to see his face or something and would react violently if I made a move to do so.

"I… I need to know what I'm dealing with. To get the right stuff – supplies I mean. I need to see your injury." Swallowing, I waited – not long actually.

"Of course," he said, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world – which actually, all things considered, it kind of was – though his voice still had that edge to it. There was the noise of clothing being moved (removed?) and a couple seconds later, he said, impatience in his voice again, "Well?"

I startled, turning around almost completely to get my first look at the man who had been terrorizing me for the last few minutes. Tall, pale, with dark hair and light eyes, he was well built – and naked from the waist up. And while a lot of women could probably easily get distracted by the definition of his chest and abs (not body-builder defined, but definitely noticeable and _really_ nice), I was fixated on something else entirely – the nearly foot long gash running from just to the left of his right armpit diagonally across his chest and ribs, as well as the sweat that covered him. The bleeding was sluggish, which meant it wasn't a fresh wound by any means.

Again, my mind balked.

No. It wasn't possible. No human could take the kind of blood loss something like that should have caused and remained standing, let alone be capable of holding a twenty-five-year-old woman hostage at knife-point. And that wasn't his only injury! Because I could see, as my eyes skimmed the rest of him, a hole in his leather pants that blood was visible through and around, as well as a torn spot where it looked like something had burned through the material and the skin beneath.

As much as he scared me, I was horrified by the damage I saw, and I suspected that there was more that I couldn't. What had happened to him? Another thought chilled me, dowsing my rising sympathy thoroughly – what did the other guy look like?

My eyes darted back to his face, catching the look of impatience and intolerance there as I completed my visual exam. Quickly, I turned back to the cabinet and pulled out what I needed, dumping it on the island as I stood and cast about. I would need a work space, and I didn't think having him sit in a chair while I stitched him up would be a good idea. Settling on the island, I realized it was the only space in the room large enough for what I needed.

"I… you need to lay down." I gestured to the island counter, which was mercifully already clear, hoping he didn't see fit to kill me for so much as daring to tell him what to do. "So I can work on it. It will… it'll be easier." It would help me out, for damn sure, but I didn't know if it would help him out. Could he even get up there with those leg wounds?

I shouldn't have bothered to think it. His eyes scanned the room, settled on the island, and with a slight curl of his lip, like he found all of this distasteful, the man got up on the counter almost as if there was nothing wrong with him. Except for the flicker of pain across his face as he broke open what clots his body had formed and fresh blood seeped from his injuries. That ease, along with the knowledge that he should have been passed out from blood loss, gave me the uneasy feeling that he wasn't a normal human being – was he like Captain America, with the Super Soldier Serum? Or like the big green rage monster the government kept trying to deny existed? I felt a twinge of empathy for his pain and instantly berated myself for it – he was threatening me and my friends! No way in hell was I feeling sorry for him because he was hurt. No way.

"Remember." His voice snapped me out of my internal rage at myself. "Do not do anything foolish." Mouth dry, I nodded, and he, apparently satisfied, laid down, his feet toward where I had the kits, his head away from them. (Probably so I didn't stab him in the eye and make a run for it, I thought a little hysterically, though his eyes were closed.)

A deep breath was most definitely called for before I stepped up beside him, deciding to concentrate on the huge laceration first, and got up close and personal with it. The edges were smooth, so I guessed the wound was made with a cutting edge of some kind – and I pictured a sword slashing at him, for some weird reason. It was too long, too wide for a knife, but there were plenty of other things that could have made a cut like that. Still, the idea of a sword stuck in my head, and I wondered if he was one of those guys who was really into the whole RPG thing – so much so that he wanted to play with real swords and make med students clean him up when things went wrong? I pushed the thoughts aside.

"I need to clean this." Years spent with my aunt, working with her every summer, watching her treat patients, plus the past seven years of pre-med and medical school, made my voice come out calmer and more confident than I was feeling. I met his suspicious eyes, bracing myself for rejection of the necessary step, only to find out that I didn't need to. He nodded, and I relaxed. He would let me do what had to be done.

Pulling up the kitchen stool, I donned gloves and set about debriding (cleaning) the wound, finishing (relatively) quickly, and then began to stitch it. He didn't make a sound, though occasional grimaces crossed his face, as well as a fresh sweat breaking out over his body, and I kept having to resist the urge to say I was sorry – even if he had threatened my life, I couldn't take pleasure in the fact that I was causing him pain. I wasn't that type of person.

An hour, maybe more, later I had finished the chest wound, and started to shift down his body to work on the (stab?) wound on his thigh. Before I could do more than stand though, his hand flashed out to grab me. With my sleeve pushed up, his hand wrapped around the bare skin of my arm and I jerked. It felt like… like someone had just stuck a TENS unit on me and cranked that thing up to ten. Wide eyed, my gaze flashed to his face – his pale face, with that hint of sweat on his skin, indigo smudges under his eyes belaying exhaustion, the set of his jaw speaking of pain – and I was struck dumb.

_I **knew** him._

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><p>Two things flashed through my mind with that realization, memories of two very different things. The first image made no sense to me, as it was something from my childhood, half-forgotten with the passing of time – my mother, holding me close as she told me stories, old heroes and dead gods, something about a wife and why she named me what she did, only I couldn't quite remember the words. Just my middle name, <em>Sigyn<em>, and the knowledge I was named for someone in those old stories. Someone I had never particularly respected, for some reason. It left me with a sense of unease, like it was important that I recall those words, but they eluded me.

The second was less bewildering, but no less disturbing: news reports, a mad man in Germany making people bow to him, the attack on New York just days later. The knowledge that he was that mad man, the one behind the attempted alien invasion of New York, was as much a fact to me as the placement of organs in the body, though there had been no real pictures of the leader, no footage, no name or description released to the masses. Nothing to connect him to the man lying on my kitchen counter. (Well, that explained the advanced technology that I wasn't sure existed yet, and his inhuman capabilities – he was an alien. Hell, it brought back into play the whole instant-hypnosis idea – aliens might be capable of psychic tricks like that, right?)

Since I was pretty much (completely, utterly, totally) floored by the certainty that I knew him and the memories that came on the heels of that thought, it took me a second to realize he'd said something, and another second to know I had no idea what it was that he had said. Which wasn't going over too well with him, judging by the look on his face and the grip he had on my arm. The fear that had subsided while I worked ratcheted back to near panic levels.

"I… um, sorry," I said, struggling to find words that would wipe the slowly gathering anger from his features – not easy with a tired and overtaxed mind. "I was going to check your leg."

Apparently, whatever he'd said, my response went along with – probably something along the lines of 'what the hell do you think you are doing', only without my snarky attitude to taint his more sophisticated speech – because his grip lessened and the gathering cloud of fury faded to merely mild irritation.

"That won't be necessary," he said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the counter as he let go of my arm, which tingled still from the strange jolt I'd gotten when he grabbed me – since he was already a good head and a half taller than me, adding in the extra height of the counter really made me feel small next to him (he practically loomed over me now) and I wanted to back away.

He made a move to stand and I shocked us both – well, I think I shocked him; I know I shocked myself – by putting out my hand, almost touching his chest as if to push him back, though I avoided direct skin-to-skin contact. For a fraction of a second, neither of us moved, and then I said, in the firmest voice I could muster (pretty damn firm, when you consider I work with some pretty crotchety old people; anyone who has heard that voice says I'm destined to be a mother), "Let me be the judge of that."

For another long, he said nothing, his face frighteningly blank, and I added, "You made yourself my patient when you told me to stitch you up. Let me finish doing my _job_." At that, whatever he'd been thinking, whatever reaction he had been debating, settled, and his expression lightened to faint amusement – like you might feel when your dog acts in a surprising but not necessarily bad way. Kind of an irritating thought, being viewed on the same level as a dog.

"Very well," he said, laying back again and spreading his hands in a gesture to his wounded legs. "Do as you see fit, _doctor_." The mocking tone was definitely not appreciated, but the courage that allowed me to stop him from getting up and, apparently, convinced him to let me look at the injuries had drained out of me, taking with it pretty much every other emotion as well – there's only so much fear, panic, and other high energy feelings a girl can manage when she's been up for close to twenty-four hours straight. Which also probably contributed to my response – I just couldn't care anymore.

"That's Doctor Jameson to you." The words were muttered as I shifted my stool and supplies down so I'd have better access to what I guessed – correctly, I realized, as I pushed the cut leather around to get a look – was a stab wound, so low I didn't think he would hear it. But he laughed; obviously, he'd heard me.

"Doctor Jameson," he repeated, still sounding infinitely mocking.

_Oh, just shut it_, I thought as I hooked the first two fingers of both hands into the hole in his pants – leather, seriously? Why did anyone want to wear leather? I didn't get it – and pulled. I was actually surprised when it ripped, widening the hole enough for me to get at the wound – the blood must have dried and made the fabric brittle.

"Next, you will have to 'stitch up' my clothing," he said, apparently still amused – dammit, I think I preferred him angry. At least then he wasn't mocking me – he had been blessedly silent. Maybe he was starting to get delirious from blood loss? His amusement had the strange effect of turning my fear to irritation. In a moment of (probably ill-advised) passive-aggressiveness, I picked up the bottle of cleaning alcohol and dumped it over the wound, feeling a great deal of satisfaction when he hissed in pain as it burned the damaged tissue. The satisfaction was pretty much immediately followed by regret – I'm not a spiteful person, I'm really not – and I was quick to wipe off the excess, murmuring an apology under my breath.

Thankfully, the momentary lapse shut him up, and I was able to tend the two leg wounds – the burn much worse than the stab, in my opinion – in relative peace (a couple questions of "Are you done yet?" aside). As I stripped off my gloves, I looked up to his face – his eyes were closed, his breathing regular, even, and for a second, I was overwhelmed again by that sense of knowing him. Then I frowned and (more ill-advised, exhaustion inspired stupidity) poked him, receiving another jolt for my trouble, since it was skin-to-skin contact.

"Hey, you didn't pass out on me, did you?" If he did… fuck it, I was going to bed. I'd fixed him up, he could find his own way out of the house and go on his crazy way. I didn't even care that I was certain he was the guy who had brought the aliens to New York last year – I just wanted to go to bed. Alas, my hopes were dashed.

"No, I did not." Stupid voice – in that almost bored drawl, I could _almost_ like it. Ask it to tell me a joke or a story and listen to him indulge me. He opened his eyes and sat up again, inspecting my work. While he did that, I leaned back, putting my arms above my head, and stretched – two hours bent over the guy had made me stiffer than his pants had been. It felt so good I actually closed my eyes, slumping as I finished and sighing in pleasure. When I opened them, he was looking at me – amused, again, dammit – and whatever small happiness I got in the physical release of my aching back shriveled up and died.

"What?" I said, irritably.

"You did not stitch this one," he said, pointing to the stab wound.

"No. It's too deep. It needs to be packed and stitched when it's shallower." He had this look in his eye that I couldn't decipher, and I was hit hard by how much I just wanted to go to bed right then, to be done with him. I didn't even care if I slept in my scrubs. "You should probably change it twice a day for at least a couple of weeks."

"Ah." Yes, _ah_. Could I go to bed now? "Anything else, _doctor_?" Again, that supremely mocking tone, but I couldn't bring myself to be irritated – I was way too tired now.

"You'll need to take out the stitches in a couple weeks, which… you'll probably need help with. And do dressing changes on the burn at least once a day…" Oh no. It finally hit me, what the look in his eye might be, right before he confirmed it.

"I suppose I will just have to take along my very own doctor, won't I?"

_Shit_.

He raised his hand, his fingers shimmering with the green tinted mirage from earlier. And then everything went black.

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><p><em><strong>AN: First chapter done, yay! So, some explanation isn't unwelcome, yes? This fic is partially inspired by Joanne Harris's Runemarks and Runelight (good books, entertaining depictions of the Norse gods), the 'real' Loki and Sigyn (who I can find very little information about, if you want to know the truth, so I'm getting to take liberties with her story, yippee! But, seriously, if anyone has some resources saying more than she was Loki's wife and she held the bowl, blah blah, even just theory and discussion on her, I'd much appreciate those links), and of course Marvel's versions of the whole Asgardian crew, both comics and movies. The med student bit... well, that's just me and the fact that I gave my aunt seasons of Grey's Anatomy for her birthday and insisted on watching them with her. (^_^)**_

**_I'm hoping to write in some cameos of characters from the rest of the Marvel movie universe (I am so happy everything crosses over with everything else in these movies), but I haven't got my story outline completed, so we'll have to see how that goes. For now, hope you liked the first chap, and leave me a review (positive or negative, hey, I'm an attention whore, so I'll take what I can get ;))! I'll get the next up as quick as I can, and hope I can maintain the momentum (5,000 words in four days!) for the rest of the fic. _**

**_Disclaimer: This is a (wonderful) work of fan fiction using characters from Marvel's (fantastic) cinematic and comic universe, trademarked by Marvel and their original authors/creators, set in a world based off that world (and my own research). I in no way created or own anything to do with the Magnificent Marvel and its myriad characters and worlds, and in no way profit from this work (other than emotionally and intellectually, maybe even spiritually, because writing is definitely profitable in all sorts of personal spheres). Obviously, while my work may be based off of (loosely) canon things in the Marvel universe, it is not canon in said universe, and is of my own imagination, created for (mostly my) entertainment only. I thank Marvel, the creators of the comics and movies, for making such fun characters and worlds to play with, as well as the Nordic culture that spawned the gods that made this whole thing possible. You're awesome, and I do so appreciate you for putting up with our (my) nonsense. _**

**_My personal thanks to anyone who read all that and has put up with my nonsense for long enough to get to this part of the author's note. I'll put you out of your misery and stop now._**

**_1/17/15 EDIT: I forgot to change the name Loki gives Johanna for himself when I posted this. I meant to use one of the aliases he has listed for Marvel's comics instead of Luke, so I've changed that (though I did not wind up using one of those aliases, after further thought on them)._**


	2. Driving to Nowhere

**A/N: Previous chapter was edited as of 1/20/15. If you read it before then, please re-read for the changes.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Two: Driving to Nowhere<strong>

I woke up in a moving car. At first, I mostly registered the movement, the quiet sound of the engine and the crick in my neck from sleeping sitting up. For a moment, I thought that my roommates and I were driving down to my aunt's for the weekend again, and started to curl up in the passenger seat to go back to sleep – only to feel the elastic and drawstring waistband of my scrubs dig into my abdomen. The first couple of seconds were just a confused jumble as I shifted again, adjusting the unforgiving fabric, and then I froze when wondering why I was in my scrubs led me to remember what had happened – exactly, in graphic detail, what had happened.

My eyes snapped open and I sat up so fast that I nearly hit my head on the roof of the car – my car! The fucker had stolen my car! I looked at the driver's seat, fully expecting him to be there, only to gasp with horror and make a grab for the wheel when I saw no one – no one! There wasn't anyone driving! No one was sitting in the driver's seat!

Except when my hands passed a certain point in the air, I saw a green shimmer, felt a tingle, and jerked away with another gasp as the outline of a man – a rather generic looking man – flared and faded away again as I touched it, leaving the seat looking completely empty again. But the wheel moved, the pedals… I squinted, turned my head slightly, and saw the outline again. What the _hell_? I could believe in alien cloaking technology but this… what was this? There wasn't anyone visible driving my car, but when I looked out of the corner of my eye, there was some sort of… hologram? But a hologram couldn't actually _drive_ my car. This wasn't possible. My brain just… stalled, trying to come up with an explanation.

The shimmer… what if it wasn't some sort of technology? He was an alien – could he have powers? I wasn't as much of a fantasy/sci-fi person as Jo was, but I did read and watch the occasional book, movie, TV show. I wasn't unfamiliar with the concept that aliens could do a hell of a lot more than humans could. After everything that had been going on in the last few years – Iron Man, the Avengers, the rumors of people with… powers out there – I couldn't dismiss the possibility that my kidnapper was capable of things I wouldn't have thought possible.

"Finally." The sound of his voice, coming from the backseat, jolted me out of my shock and contemplation as I spun to look at him – and realized he hadn't even buckled me in. "Now that you have deigned to return to consciousness," oh, that sarcasm and mockery thing instantly pissed me off, even if my heart was pounding with panic because there was _no one driving my car_, "perhaps you can do something about these." He gestured to his chest and legs, indicating his injuries, though now that he was dressed again (or at least had a shirt and a different pair of pants on – where did he get those?), I couldn't see them.

"They itch," he added when I just stared at him, my mind mostly filled with half-formed thoughts and too many questions. Surprisingly, shockingly, the fear of _him _hadn't reared its head yet, and I wasn't about to reach for it – screw self-preservation, I wanted to verbally bite this man's head off! Maybe stab him a few times – I knew anatomy like the back of my hand, I could avoid any vital spots and fix him up again after. If he didn't kill me. No, he would probably kill me and go torment someone else. Not good. Stabbing him was out.

My continued silence inspired a slow change in his expression, from sardonic boredom to ever increasing irritation, and _still_ the fear didn't come. The fact that _he_ was getting irritated with _me_ just pissed me off further, until I couldn't stand to look at him anymore, flopping back around to sit correctly in the seat, putting on my seat belt, every motion crying out my emotions, even while my heart pounded, adrenaline making me shake.

"Pull over." It wasn't a request. I'd had enough of this. I had to do something because I couldn't let him keep pushing me around – eventually I'd snap and get myself killed. Well, snap worse, because this was definitely anger-fueled stupidity right now.

"Excuse me?" Oh, goodie – he didn't like that. At all. Too fucking bad. (See? Angry-fueled stupidity.)

"Pull. Over." _Have a taste of your own medicine, you asshole._ I turned my head, my eyes snapping as I yanked the hair tie out of my hair and scraped it back again into a fresh, slightly less messy ponytail. "I can't do shit for you in a moving car, I don't know what you did with my kit, and I don't trust that," I nodded my head at the thing in the driver's seat (which I could only see when I looked at it out of the corner of my eye – directly, I couldn't see the damn thing at all. None of the other drivers on the road were giving it so much as a second glance though, so I guessed, whatever it was, I just couldn't see it like other people did. _Great_. More weird crap like the distinct feeling that I knew him), "to drive _my_ car. So pull over, let me look at your shit, and then _I_ will be doing the driving. Wherever the fuck you want to go. Capeesh?"

When I looked at him directly, there was murder in his eyes, but I _still_ wasn't scared of him. Just pissed. Since when did I have a _death wish_? Because that's what the look on his face promised as the thing slowed the car, making its way off the road and throwing it into park. Only when the car stopped moving did he move, and then he was half through the gap between the front seats, hand wrapped around my throat (skin-to-skin, _again_ giving me that stupid, weird as hell jolt), pressing me back into the seat as he cut off my air before I even realized he had moved.

I was startled, and my heart jumped in my chest, already racing from the no-visible-driver thing, now practically buzzing with the adrenaline that had been dumped into my system.

"How _dare_ you –" but I could still speak and whatever stupidity was driving my recklessness had my mouth going once again, my hand around his wrist to keep him from crushing my windpipe. It was like completing a current, the near pain fading to a buzz beneath my skin, but I couldn't budge his hand from my throat at all.

"I _dare_ because you _need me_." His hand tightened, and I gasped, unable to continue, because it was all I could do just to _breathe_. Dammit, he was going to kill me! I couldn't let him kill me. Then he would kidnap someone else, force them to do whatever he needed – I had to live through this, save someone else.

"There are thousands of mortals that can do what you can – I _do not_ 'need you'. I could kill you now and have another before the sun sets," his voice was a snarl, and I, scared but determined not to show it, bared my teeth back at him, in no way deterred – I wouldn't give in to him again. Apparently I surprised him, because he blinked, the anger momentarily checked in his expression, and his hand loosened around my throat.

One quick breath, and I was off again. "You kill me and you leave clues behind – they'll be on you like white on rice, faster than you can snap your fingers. Better to keep me alive so I can divert suspicion, keep you in the clear long enough to get whatever it is you _want_.

"_I_ can help you. Another _mortal_," I threw his mocking tone back in his face, needing him to see me as something other than a victim to be pushed around, "will just get you caught quicker. So yes, you _do_ need me." Gritting my teeth, I prepared for him to crush my throat (because such a simple ploy couldn't have worked, could it?), refute my words, do _something_, but he didn't. He didn't do anything, not for a long moment. His expression shifted, calculating, and then he smiled, sending my pounding heart stuttering at how _familiar_ it was. His smile… I knew that smile, even if I'd never seen the expression on his face. The knowledge of it was in my pounding heart, prickling along me skin, even if I didn't know what it meant.

"Well," he said, his hand sliding from my throat as he studied me with that smile. "Well." Then he sat back, disappearing from my sight for the moment it took for me to turn and see him again, seemingly relaxed, in the back seat.

My hand carefully feeling my bruising throat – and the scab from where his knife cut me (mother fucker, I was so going to get him for that, though how a human could fight a… whatever he was I had no clue) – I glowered at him. "Well what?" My voice was raspy, and I knew I was probably not going to be talking right for a few days, and whatever damage he'd done to my vocal cords by trying to choke me to death could be permanent if I didn't keep talking to a minimum for at least a week.

Which made me think, _you know what?_ "Forget it."

I didn't want to hear his explanation for that 'well'. It would probably just piss me off or scare me half to death. "Do we have a deal? I help you, you quit with the death threats, maybe try to respect that I'm a person, and when this is all over, we go our merry separate ways?" Well, so much for not talking. Damn my throat hurt now. I needed to mind my own mental advice and shut up. Oh, and while I was at it – maybe figure out where my damn self-preservation had gone? Cause seriously. What I'd just done had almost resulted in my death. I may still be alive, but it had still been stupid, and I was not a stupid person. I should have been able to come up with something better.

"You have a deal, _Doctor_ Jameson," he replied, at once sounding respectful and so sarcastic that I wanted to knock his teeth in.

Dropping my hand from my throat – rubbing it wasn't going to make it feel better, just distract from the ache – I faced forward again. "Good.

"And just Riley will work. Where did you put the kit?" Unbuckling again – seems to have been pointless, with the short amount of time we'd spent on the road since I woke up – I opened the door and got out. Surprisingly, he did the same, though there was that shimmer again, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye looking like the generic man he'd had driving my car – _the god of illusions_, just like always. The words brought a smile to my face, until I wondered where they'd come from, quickly shaking them away. He was an alien, not a god, and he had some technology – the word _illusions_ implied magic, and he couldn't have magic, because magic wasn't real. Was it?

"The rear compartment." Okay, that was weird. Like he was talking with two voices – the one that, when I was exhausted beyond sense, I had almost liked, and then the generic guy's voice. Bland, American accent, deep but nothing remarkable. Which just made it weirder. Especially with the phrasing and cadence of his true voice.

"You mean the trunk." I reached back in for the button that popped it open, eyeing him as I straightened. "Or boot, I guess you might say, with your accent." Though now that I knew it wasn't British, I still wasn't sure if there was a better comparison. _Asgardian_ came to mind, but I shook it off, like I had the 'god of illusions' thought. I blamed the momentary lack of oxygen caused by him trying to choke me to death.

Waving a hand at his raised eyebrow, I went around to the back of the car, passing him, and found two duffle bags in the trunk – one was utterly familiar and a big relief, because it was the emergency stash of clothes and toiletries I kept in the car for when I was stuck at work (the only reason I didn't have it with me last night was because it had been nice enough out when I left the house that I hadn't driven to work). The other, I quickly discovered, was filled with the entire contents of our first aid cabinet.

_Messily_ filled. Like he just raked his arm through and dumped it all in the bag. Something that rubbed me entirely wrong, because I'm a _bit_ of a neat freak and like things organized. Actually, 'a bit' might be an understatement. I almost started to mutter as I pulled out fresh gauze, an antiseptic and pain-relieving spray, tape, gloves, and alcohol, but stopped myself from making a sound – I did not want to go through the rest of my life with a voice like a smoker. I had a hard enough time making myself heard without adding hoarseness to distort my words.

I grabbed a bottle of water from my overnight bag, too, cracked it open and washed my mouth out – I had definitely been asleep for a while, since the light indicated early afternoon, and my mouth felt like it had been stuff with cotton. Maybe I could find a gas station to break out my toothbrush and toothpaste.

Back at the front passenger seat, I laid it back as far as it would go and gestured for him to get in, miming for him to take off his shirt – I'd decided silent was better than snarky, since the truce was so new. And my throat _really_ hurt. My charades seemed to amuse him (amusement was better than anger, I reminded myself, even if it pissed me off), but thankfully he didn't say anything (probably didn't feel like talking to the pathetic mortal), taking off his shirt and getting into the car. It didn't give me the best room to work, but it was better than trying to get to him in the back seat – I would have had to straddle him to work effectively, and I wasn't about to touch him more than I had to.

In almost no time at all, I had the chest and burn taken care of (more proof that the guy wasn't human, as if I didn't already know it; he was healing way too fast), and was puzzling on how to get to the stab wound. These pants didn't have a convenient hole to work through, and it was high up on his thigh, instead of his calf like the burn. Damn, I needed him to take his pants off.

Handing him his shirt, I mimed what I wanted again and closed my eyes; trying to give him privacy, because a lot of people weren't comfortable being naked in front of a stranger. I'd seen plenty of naked and near naked people over the years, between school, work, and home with my aunt, so it didn't particularly bother me anymore. Not when I was in the professional frame of mind that I was in.

But for some reason, my mind started to wander down some rather unprofessional thought paths, remembering the pleasing look of his half naked body, and wondering what he looked like totally naked. Whoa. Where did that come from? Yeah, he was good-looking, but I wasn't attracted to him – hell, I wasn't attracted to anyone. Never had been. As these things passed through my mind, I'm pretty sure he snickered, but a car passed by at that moment, and I couldn't tell. Still, imagining that maybe, just maybe, he could have read my mind… my cheeks flamed.

"Are you really that prudish, _Doctor_, that you feel the need to close your eyes when presented with a naked male? What will you do when you complete your schooling and have to do so on a regular basis?" The fucker found it funny. He really did. I wanted to punch him in the parts he was accusing me of being prudish about. But at least, I thought with relief, it still seemed like he couldn't read my mind.

Eyes open again, I gave him a level look of irritation, then glanced down – not entirely on purpose. And I really (stupidly) could not tell if I was relieved or disappointed (the stupid part) that he had the shirt covering his groin (and the other stupid part noting that he _did_ look really good mostly naked). Stifling a sigh at how much thought I'd put into the whole thing, I took off the outer covering and started to unpack the wound, soaking it in water from my bottle so the gauze didn't get stuck while I was pulling it out. It was noticeably shallower, and I was able to use about half the packing I had before. At that rate, it would be healed in a matter of days instead of weeks, as would his other wounds. The realization almost made me giddy – I wouldn't have to put up with him for much longer. Yippee!

"All done," I said, and winced. That hurt, and my voice sounded like a frog's. If I wasn't pretty sure I'd been partially to blame for baiting the crazy guy, I might have hated him – _but he acted according to his nature, like he had always done_.

Gah! Where were these thoughts coming from?! I didn't know him! You hear me, God? I didn't know him! How could I be thinking things like that? It just didn't make sense! So I shut it out again, meeting his gaze – which was surprisingly unreadable.

"I seem to forget how fragile your kind is," he mused, eyes on my neck – were the bruises from his fingers already showing, or was he looking at the scab where his knife cut me? Why did that seem like it was suddenly a concern for him? He could _not_ be feeling guilty. Was he worried about how useful I might be when I was so 'easily' damaged?

My hand covering my throat, not wanting him staring my 'fragility', I croaked, "Try to remember for the duration of our partnership, 'kay?" I expected him to look amused again, but instead he nodded and reached for his pants. Surprised, I didn't turn away as he pulled his clothes back on (that idiot part of me, probably related to my heretofore nonexistent libido, sighed again in disappointment), only remembering that we were done and could move on when he looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

My cheeks actually heated (stupid!) and I quickly turned away, throwing things back in the trunk and closing doors before going around to the driver's side and getting in. But not before grabbing a scarf from my bag and wrapping it around my throat – if he asked (which he didn't), I could say I was just cold.

"Where to?" I asked as I turned the key, grateful for the quiet design of my (a gift from my aunt that she wouldn't let me refuse, though I didn't try too hard) car because I didn't have to speak loudly.

"Just keep heading southwest." He sounded… tired, but when I glanced over at him after pulling back into the flow of traffic, his face was turned away, looking out the window, and I could guess nothing of his thoughts from his posture. Typical. Alien 'god' turns into brooding nutcase. Just my luck. Glancing him over, I did notice something though, and it was my turn to smirk.

"Put on your seat belt."

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><p>The 'argument' over the seat belt took about five minutes – the time it took me to give up trying to use my bruised vocal cords to convince him and just pull over instead, refusing to go anywhere until he put the damn thing on. So what if he was an alien and wouldn't be hurt in a car crash? I was a measly mortal, and if he wasn't wearing a seatbelt, he could fly into <em>me<em> instead of out the window. Thanks, but no thanks. Death by Loki was not the way I wanted to go out of this world.

It took another ten minutes for me to notice that I had thought of him by that name – without actually having any idea what his name _was_. He hadn't told me, and the reports about him hadn't had the name of the madman – even Tony Stark had been pretty hush-hush on the whole subject of the thwarted New York invasion, who was behind it, and everyone had expected him (especially since Iron Man was _there_) to say _something_, even if he didn't spill the beans entirely.

Thinking on it, I realized it wasn't just something I had decided to call him in my mind because he hadn't told me his name – no, I was _certain_ that Loki was his name. Racking my brain for an explanation turned up nothing – the name was familiar, but in a way that I couldn't grasp. I just could not figure out where I had heard it before, or why I just _knew_ that it was his name. It made me uneasy, and after another couple minutes dwelling on it, I finally spat out the question that would make the whole mental argument pointless.

"What's your name?" Because I couldn't be right. It couldn't be Loki – that was just a nonsense couple of syllables I had put together in my need to call him something. But I had the sinking feeling in my gut that I wasn't wrong.

In what I was coming to understand was typical fashion for him, the bastard – because I wasn't going to think of him as Loki, even if the name echoed over and over again in my head – looked at me and smirked.

"You may call me… Master." He obviously thought he was funny, but his eyes were calculating too – he wanted to see my reaction. I guess how I responded to my imminent demise at his hands had thrown him a bit.

With my voice not so great at the moment, I had to restrain myself to a look to show how very unamused I was by this response. Did he really think I was going to call him 'Master'? Not a chance. I was more likely to call him Jackass to his face, which would probably get me choked again. Turning my eyes back to the road, I shortened my question.

"Name, please."

He still didn't answer, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw his eyes narrow as he looked at me. "You were terrified of me last night." _What changed?_ He didn't voice the question, but I could feel it, hanging in the air.

The thing was… I didn't know. I could not, for the life of me, figure out why I wasn't afraid of him now. He had been on the edge of killing me barely more than an hour ago, but while I'd been scared, I hadn't been terrified – I had been angry, determined. Searching for the fear I had felt the night before, I couldn't summon it either, not even a speck of it. At that second, he scared me about as a somewhat unpredictable friend, someone I felt at ease with, but didn't exactly trust not to freak me out on occasion. It was an impossible feeling, this thing of knowing him, but I couldn't shake it any more than I could call up the fear I'd felt before.

So I just shrugged. "Your name." Despite the croakiness, I still managed to sound polite.

He made a disgusted noise and looked away from me, out the window again, his arm propped against the door and his chin resting against the back of his hand. "If only I had the staff," he muttered. I was curious – what staff was he talking about? But I didn't ask, because the niggling certainty that I already knew his name was getting to me. It was imperative that he tell me. I did not want to be right.

"Name."

"Loki, mortal," he finally snapped at me, causing my stomach to drop – I was right. "My name is Loki. God of Mischief, Prince of Lies, Silvertongue – myriad other titles that bare no relation to your question. Satisfied?"

His glare didn't bother me – I was too busy trying to explain away how I knew his name before he gave it to me. I must have heard it somewhere. Yes, someone must have found out the name of the alien who tried to invade Earth, and I'd just caught a snippet of the report and couldn't remember it wholly. That was all.

Why, then, did my mind keep adding to his list of aliases? Trickster, Wildfire. God of more than mischief – fire and hearth; Lopti, Logi. I knew all his names, and there was more waiting just on the other side of a realization I couldn't reach, that I did not _want_ to reach. Instead, I pushed it all away, taking a deep breath and forcing myself to respond to him.

"Thank you." A little scoffing noise was all the response I got for that, but I didn't care. I was too busy ignoring the feeling that there was… more. More to these things I knew, to the way I knew him. To the jolt every time my skin came in contact to his, the buzz when I'd touched him back. I had never been so willing to ignore something, but everything about him, about what I kept thinking, was too unnerving.

I concentrated on driving instead.

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><p>When I was hungry, I fished out some of the snacks I had stashed in my glove compartment. I offered to share with Loki, but the self-proclaimed god curled his lip at the peanut butter crackers, and I wasn't too disappointed, though I rolled my eyes. I was trying to be nice, but if he didn't appreciate the effort, it wasn't any skin off my nose.<p>

Whatever amusement he had gotten from our earlier interaction had faded, because he sat in churlish silence for the next several hours, aside from the occasional comment on my driving (none of them positive, and most of them inspired by defensive tactics taken against another driver).

I stopped at a rest stop for the obvious reasons, refilled my water bottle, offered him a bottle I got from a vending machine (that he accepted, apparently not so prejudiced against the mundane that he couldn't drink _water_), took the opportunity to stretch my legs.

It was also the first time I realized that I still had my cell phone on me – I guess Loki didn't think about taking it from me. I tried to check it, but it had died sometime during my stint of unconsciousness, and even though I had a charger in the car, I wasn't sure I wanted Loki to realize I had it yet. I didn't necessarily need it right now anyway – it was Saturday by now, which meant I wasn't expected in class, and it was my weekend off, so no one would be expecting to hear from me there.

My roommates might wonder where I went, but so long as Loki's illusionary self last night had been reasonably attractive, the twins who made up roomies three and four would make up the story for my absence without me needing to do anything – Charlotte and Donsan were the type of women whose minds never left the gutter. They'd hear the words 'Riley brought a guy home' and rejoice that the house prude had decided to spend the weekend with a guy, especially when I didn't return this evening. The thought was almost funny, because the twins were really something when they got going, and I could clearly picture the scene.

Loki was back at the car before I was, and we continued on, his mood not improved by the delay. I wanted to kick him for his sullenness, but my survival instincts weren't so far gone that I thought I could get away with physical violence. Still, his mood dampened mine, and turning on the radio didn't help, despite how music was normally my go-to pick-me-up – he wouldn't let me leave it on anything besides orchestral music, calling everything else 'drivel'. Don't get me wrong, I like orchestral, but when driving to nowhere with a moody alien as my passenger, I would have much preferred something else.

The sun set around six – my snacks ran out around eight. And my eyes started burning with the desire to sleep by midnight. Finally, close to one, I took the next exit off the interstate and found my way to the Denny's signs had promised would be close by. When I parked and turned off the car, Loki was eyeing me irritably.

"Another stop?" he groused when I unbuckled.

"Hungry, tired." My answers were short, my throat having felt progressively worse as the day went on. "Eat, then sleep." I got out of the car then, because I didn't care what he had to say – I was getting food. I really wanted to use their bathroom too, clean up some, and maybe change clothes because I was still in my scrubs. Still, I didn't take anything with me but my wallet – I didn't want to give Loki a chance to try to argue with me.

The fact that he followed me, his voice lowered in muttered complaints that I couldn't hear a word of but knew the tone, actually made me smirk – had the master of lies given up controlling me? Or was he as hungry as I was, tired of being cooped up in the car? Whatever the reason, the fact that he was with me, with minimal talk, as I went inside was surprisingly amusing and satisfying.

Inside was warm, a lot warmer than the car had been all day. A waitress flashed us a smile as we came in, on her way by with a tray of food for what looked (and sounded) like a group of teenagers – I immediately headed to the other side of the restaurant, not just because I didn't trust Loki around other people, but because I'm not a fan of teenagers, and these looked like the obnoxiously loud kind that I can't stand. If I found them obnoxious, Loki would undoubtedly find them more so and I wouldn't be in any condition to talk him out of doing something nasty to them. Quickly, I picked out a booth far away from the group, sliding in and feeling relieved when he took the opposite side.

The waitress, the same one serving the teenagers (at this time of night, I didn't expect there to be more than one or two there), came and took our drink orders (Loki spoke first, ordering water, allowing me to just hold up two fingers to indicate that I wanted the same and sparing me having to speak), leaving menus with the promise to be back in just a moment with the waters. While she walked away, as I bent my head to look at the menu – though I was already pretty sure I wanted pancakes, eggs, bacon and toast (hey, I was hungry) – I shrugged off my jacket and unwound the scarf from my neck. It was too warm for even that light an extra layer.

When she came back, Loki again ordered first (the exact same thing I wanted, which made me want to change my order just so I didn't match), and I was treated to the strange duality of his illusionary voice and the real one, which it seemed only I could hear – the waitress certainly didn't notice anything off about him. Me, on the other hand… When she turned to me, smiling, and I lifted my head to return her smile, the expression suddenly dropped off her face and she gasped.

"Lord above, child, what _happened_ to you?" she cried, her dismay obvious. I was taken aback for a moment, until I remembered the bruises. My hand immediately flew up to cover them as I cursed myself mentally for taking off the scarf – I'd forgotten for a moment why I had put it on in the first place! Clearing my throat in an effort to make myself sound less like a frog when I answered, I opened my mouth –

Only to have Loki respond for me. "She was mugged last night when she was getting off work," his two voices said, infused with feeling. When I turned to gape at him, his hand reached across the table to take mine, sending another jolt through me – to the waitress, it must have looked like a gesture of supportive concern, because she laid a hand on her chest and looked like she wanted to cry. Me, I was too shocked to do anything. "The guy really did a number on her throat – the doctor said it would be better if she didn't talk much for the next few days."

"Oh, you poor dear! You must have been terrified." Man, he was good. God of Lies was definitely a fit title for him – even his real face could have fooled the woman, because the expression he wore was exactly what I would have expected from a guy who was relating how his girlfriend had gotten attacked. Except for the glint of malicious amusement in his eyes, but I was pretty sure I was the only one who could see that.

"Oh, no – she fought like a hellcat. Even if I hadn't come around to check on her and ran him off, I don't think he would have gotten away with it." Oh, that was rich, since _he_ was the one who had made a wreck of my neck, but here he was, painting himself as the hero! "My Riley is a brave one." He smiled at me then, his expression adoring, but his eyes full of that same cruel mirth – apparently tricking people improved his mood. Finally over my surprise, I managed an appropriately cow-eyed, simpering smile in return, croaking, "My hero," with enough sincerity that the waitress didn't notice the sarcasm in my eyes.

She swallowed the charade, hook, line, and sinker, finished taking our order and hustled back to the kitchen to put it in. Thankfully, the teenagers got loud again, and the waitress didn't come back to see me snatch my hand away or the look I gave Loki – which was half annoyed, half amused, and maybe a little impressed. At least he didn't paint me as a totally weak woman, though the fact that he called me his – even for the sake of the lie – was irritating (partially because that stupid part of me that said I knew him felt that it was completely right for him to hold my hand and call me his – that I should be calling him _mine_ too).

"Oh, do not look so upset, _dear_," he said, mocking me again. "You had no appropriate story ready, nor would you have been able to 'sell it'. Had you hesitated, it would have made the woman suspicious – likely of me." His look turned haughty. "So much for your ability to divert such things."

"Didn't have to play along," I said, picking up my water and taking a drink. "Could have gotten you in trouble."

He smiled at that, the expression all malice. "And then I could have killed them all."

I re-discovered my initial fear of him then, because ice coated my insides at those words – apparently, while I wasn't afraid of him for myself so much anymore, I was afraid of what he could and would do to other people. He was a cold, unfeeling bastard who did not care an iota for the lives around him – killing these people to prove a point to me was not beyond him. Still, I tried to push the fear aside.

"Trail," I pointed out – bodies would bring those searching for him down on his head in an instant.

But he shrugged. "I'm sure I could make it look like an accident. Arrange a gas leak, maybe an explosion to take care of the evidence."

"CSI. Always evidence."

His self-assured smirk didn't waver, but he waved me off, and I fell silent; he was too right about what he was capable of, and I realized there were risks I wasn't willing to take with him. I would use myself as a shield for the people around him – keep him safe and relatively happy, and I could spare others the consequences of an encounter with Loki. The brief conversation solidified my reasons for helping him – it was not about protecting myself, but about protecting others. At some point, I would need to find a way to get in contact with someone who had the power to hold him – he couldn't be allowed to get what he wanted. Thoughts of the destruction in New York, the deaths, flooded my mind, further strengthening my resolve.

I ignored the feeling of déjà vu that came with this realization, the feeling that I had come to this conclusion before – and the knowledge that it had not been the truth then, nor would it be the entire truth now.

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading! Please leave a review, I really love feedback.**


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